Internal Monologue
by Bottle of Smoke
Summary: The night before Bill's Wedding, Hermione reflects on the past seven years of her life with Ron. It's my first published fanfic, so please be kind!


Note: This my first piece I've published online, so please be kind to me! I wrote this a couple of years ago when the last book came out and thought it had some potential.

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It's funny how we're friends, yet all we do is argue. Of course, there are times of happiness between us, but we always seem to end up at the same place – in a quarrel.

My boy stands before me, so gangly and tall – even at eleven, he was the tallest in our year. Now I suspect even Bill has to look up at him.

I remember when I first saw him. It was on the train to school. I was such a little know-it-all – I had to find Neville's toad. I busted into their compartment, his and Harry's. My boy sat with his wand poised, his rat beside him, and a faded blue sweater on. The first thought that popped into my mind? _I've never seen a boy with such red hair_. Sure, I'd seen redheads before, but he seemed to be on fire. Romantically, my first words I said to him were "Has anyone seen a toad?"

We were at such odds, that first year. Why does that seem like a lifetime ago, when it was only about seven years? Our lives were so untouched by evil. Everything was so peaceful then. Maybe that's the reason why.

I was a muggle – born witch, raised without any knowledge of the wizarding world. Sure, many other people were in the same situation as me, but what of those that were pureblooded, who had grown up with magic in their lives? They would certainly see me as an inferior, a joke. I was at too far a disadvantage – I had to make up for that. I did so by studying. I poured my heart out into my schoolbooks. They were my only friends for the first part of the year.

We were very cool to each other, that first part of the year. We kept our distance from each other, holding a mutual contempt for the other. Then one day he said those words that hurt me so – 'It's no wonder no one can stand her. She's a nightmare, honestly."

More than anything, I wanted a friend – I had to leave all of my muggle friends behind, but he never had to go through any of that. He didn't know, or cared – and if he didn't care, would anyone else? _No_, I thought desperately. I felt the well of tears in my eyes rise, and my throat seemed to be tied in a knot. I didn't know what to do – I just ran to the bathroom, running into him. _Fine_, I thought. _It's little pain to him, compared to what he's done to me_.

I stayed in that bathroom forever, those tears coming down my face freely, as if a plug had been pulled to release all my emotions. I didn't care about him at all at. I just felt like a fool. A puny fool that thought that if I would just study my heart out, I could fit in. I wasn't even mad at him. It was all just self-pity that flowed through me.

I was so absorbed with my own grief; I didn't hear the sounds of heavy footsteps and disoriented grunting. A second later, I looked up, and was face to face with a ghastly mountain troll. I screamed. All of my grief suddenly went out the window. I was to die in a bathroom, without the dignity of standing up for myself. I was too frozen with fear to pull out my wand.

It seemed like it was all over for me – and then he came. My boy and Harry were there, like those fabled knights in shining armor, here to save me. Harry tried to get me to move. I was still so petrified with fear, and even as the troll lurched toward us, I remained immobile. He and Harry bravely warded the troll off, though with less grace than imagined. We managed to survive and all of my resentment and pain washed away. He actually cared enough to save me. I forgot about all of those harsh words. I quietly forgave him in my mind. We were friends.

When we had that first battle – our first battle against Voldemort, we had to play a game of chess, with us as the pieces. My boy, so strategic and calm, planned exactly where each of us should go. He carefully moved all of the pieces around, like a general commanding his troops. The game trudged on, and we were down to the final moves. He tried everything in his power, but it was no use. A sacrifice had to be made. He laid himself down for us by making a move to have Harry checkmate the king. The queen took him by force, hitting the horse he was perched upon. He fell off the horse and onto the board, and that's when I first felt a twinge of heartbreak for him. What if he was dead? That blow looked very rough – what if he never opened his eyes? I wanted to run to him as the black queen carried him away with her other defeats, but I couldn't move. We had to go on.

He did, however, open his eyes again. Those beautiful sapphire-blue eyes…such a deep, royal blue. I've always seen them flare up when his temper was alight, but I can't remember when they seemed to shine when they looked at me….

When second year came, we all hoped that Voldemort was gone for good. So when the Heir of Slytherin began striking down students, we all worried that it was a new enemy.

Along with that, we learned a new word – Mudblood. The second Malfoy uttered it, he was there again, protecting me. I suppose it is a friendly duty to protect those who are your comrades, but he always seemed to want to defend me. It occurred to me then that while he accepted me into his world, others, like Malfoy, would never see me as an equal. To some, that would be the end of their world, but I just quietly accepted the fact. I have grown used to the prejudice.

We all thought that Malfoy was the Heir. We only had to wheedle it out from him. Cunningly, I thought of the polyjuice potion. His and Harry's worked. Mine didn't. I couldn't forget their faces as they saw me, yellow-eyed and fur-coated. I felt like they were looking into the face of Medusa – they were turned to stone. I was worried of never reverting to myself. What if I stayed this way forever? I was never wild about my looks in the first place, but now they were even worse. Thankfully, it was curable, but I can never forget the look in his eyes. They were stiff, disgusted, unbearable.

I was a victim of the Heir, though I was only stunned. I can't remember the few weeks I was stunned. I can only remember that I hoped that they would wretch the paper from my hand. I had to rely on them to finish the work. And they did – I could always trust them. Never was I happier to see them than when I came to – I could have stayed like that forever, to never see them again.

He has a smattering of freckles across his face, like of the Weasleys do, where the sun hits. It stretches from the side of his left cheek, over his long nose and to the other cheek. They're heavier on his arms and legs. They make him look so youthful, despite the fact that he's a man now.

Our third year was the rockiest for us yet. Voldemort lay low for once, but Sirius Black had escaped from prison. A traitor to Harry's parents, he was Voldemort's most loyal servant and killed thirteen muggles and Peter Pettigrew. Or so we thought.

I never had a pet before that time – a shame, too. I always felt jealous of my neighbor, who had two big, content chocolate labs. I always loved animals. So that year, I received a pet, a cat, named Crookshanks. He was a smart cat, who loved me, but was independent and preferred to live by his own rules. Sadly, that included finding his own food. Crookshanks knew right away what he wanted – Scabbers, My boy's rat. Crookshanks never meant any harm – but he was a cat, and cats are hunters. It was bound to happen.

One day, Scabbers went missing. I told my boy off, telling him he should have been more careful if he knew that Crookshanks was after Scabbers. He told me I should have guarded Crookshanks and kept him away if I knew that he was after Scabbers. He refused to talk to me, and I returned the favor. I was right – I mean, after all, even if Crookshanks did eat Scabbers, it was entirely his fault for leaving Scabbers out so easily.

That row nearly cost us our friendship. It turned out Scabbers wasn't eaten – he wasn't even a rat. He was Peter Pettigrew, a friend of Harry's father and Sirius Black when they were in school, and the real traitor. Pettigrew managed to escape, but Sirius's name was cleared. At least, with Harry it was.

He pushes back a lock of his red hair. It has always been so thick and wavy, falling over his forehead like wine spilling from a glass onto an ivory tablecloth. You could always pick him out from a crowd, for his red crown would stick out like a sore thumb. I've always loved that red hair…

I suppose I first knew that I loved him when we were going into our fourth year. He was always my friend, always had been, but something happened that summer before fourth year. It was the middling point of our education – no longer lower classmen, not yet upper, though. He grew his normal set of inches, at least three or four. By then, I stopped growing taller, and grew smaller. I was no longer eye-level with him. I hit just below his nose now, and he titled his head down at me. His voice changed. He grew a broader set of shoulders. I felt such unease around him, as if I was afraid of doing something wrong around him and losing his favor. It didn't affect me at first. I was trying to figure out why I was so flustered in the first place. But then came the Yule Ball.

The Tournament seems like a lifetime ago as well, but it was three years ago when we held a gigantic contest to see which school would come out on top. To everyone's surprise, we had not only Harry, our resident celebrity, but also another one – Viktor Krum, Quidditch star and student. Viktor was a quiet boy, shy and abashed by celebrity. Legions of girls killed to walk around on his arm. He never paid any attention to them, however. Every day, he would come into the library when I was there. I said nothing – it was his right to be there, after all. I was too sensible and practical to fall for someone like Krum – being friends with Harry was a hassle as it was. Not to mention, it was very hard to read my History of Magic homework with nervous fan girls tittering over the color of Viktor's eyes. Besides, I was wishing for another, unknown boy to call on me.

Viktor acted quicker, though. He was four years older than I was, but he was the first boy to notice me. I wasn't one to get fond second glances and nervous one-liners – I'm sensible and more aware of my studies than my looks. But for someone like Viktor, who had other, lovelier girls throwing themselves down at his feet, to want me instead…I couldn't even fathom it. I was silently happy that he did care for me, even if it wasn't a boy with ruddy hair.

The Yule Ball came around, and Viktor took me. I knew that I would need to dress up, so I bought beautiful robes and straightened and pulled my hair back. The looks from people were enough to boost my ego for the rest of my life, but my boy just looked at me, his face sullied. That was fine with me, I decided. If he wants to grouch around because his last resort was taken, then that was fine with me. He acted like such jerk anyway, thinking that no one would want me at all. He accused me of fraternizing with the enemy, an excuse to explain my going with Viktor. I told him off – I was not an understudy, waiting in the wings for him. Our argument didn't cause too much of a rough spot on our friendship, but I knew that we were beginning to turn away from friendship and onto another path.

Voldemort's hand was once again in the Tournament, and this time, we had our first brush with death – Cedric Diggory, an innocent boy just ready to graduate Hogwarts. He did nothing; he was only in the way. And that's when I knew, I suppose, that life was only going to get harder. Voldemort was truly back, and I could no longer live in peace.

He takes a deep breath, and his chest and shoulders shrug. He's still gangly, but he's growing into his frame. His shoulders are broad and his arms don't drag the ground. But his chest is still small and shallow, and his legs are still spindly. But it's always how I've known him – always lanky, always loose-limbed. It would be hard to imagine him any other way.

Fifth year came, and the rough road to peace again began. The Ministry tried to deny the fact the Voldemort was alive and on the prowl. They enforced their beliefs upon us in a teacher, the deplorable Professor Dolores Umbridge. She taught us enough to ward off a flobberworm, and nothing else. So we formed the D.A., Dumbledore's Army, to learn something. After all, how else would we fend off dark magic if we didn't practice?

Viktor continued to write to me, even though he was done with school and was a full-time Quidditch player. We kept our connection friendly, though we both mutually agreed that we weren't much beyond friends.

My boy had yet to tell me how he felt by then – I suppose he thought that I was still involved with Viktor. He was always like that, so foolhardy and emotional, his secrets and feelings displayed for the entire world. But he's always successful in one thing: hiding how he feels about love. He never mentions how he feels about any girl or me – it's as if he is afraid of me…to be honest, we only get to know what the other one thinks of each other when we argue. I'm more worried that he really doesn't care for me…that he's leading me on, or that he doesn't even register my love. That's my greatest fear – failure. Failure of having him find me incompetent. Failure of not having him love me. I don't want to lose him.

It wasn't until the end of the year that the ministry was totally convinced that Voldemort was real – that he truly was starting the second war. Now it was final – I would have to say good-bye to happy times, say good-bye to childhood.

He flames up slightly under my gaze. I smile. He could go from pale to green to purple to red in five seconds. Those ears of his – they stick out slightly from under his hair – are tipped red. He rubs his neck, with his callused, freckled hand. I remember one time, back in second year; I had to help him up the stair with the trick step. His hands were the same size as mine. Last year, he took my hand and pulled me away once to talk to me. His hands had grown so much since then; they enveloped my hands and were comfortingly warm. I miss those hands.

Last year had to be the hardest year for me yet. Never was I so miserable. It was even worse than first year, for the pain he caused me was unthinkable. I would never want to relive my sixth year, no matter what the cost.

He was so tied in knots when it came to girls. My boy is so far from romantic, but I like that about him. He never wastes words or actions just for flattery. However, he went off like a bomb last year when he caught Ginny kissing a boy. Ginny, in a fury, told him to get over her snogging and should go out and do some himself, as he had about as much experience as a twelve-year-old. She also managed to tell him that I kissed Viktor – not something I wanted to reveal to him. He stormed off, mad and red-faced, and I worried over him. After all, he was most likely to go out there and do something irrational. I was in danger of losing him again.

And I did. To cure his inexperience, he decided to take up another girl's offer for a relationship. He may have done it for experience, or to hurt me – but he succeeded at both. For months, I had to endure seeing him acting grotesquely in public, kissing that girl and not even looking ashamed. It wounded me beyond pain. I cried terribly. How funny that he can make me feel so happy and yet is the only boy that can make me cry. Harry tried to comfort me, but he might as well have talked to a statue. I tried playing at his game, and went out with another boy. The attempt was terribly futile.

The second war, meanwhile, was going terribly. It was a grim custom to open the paper and scan the obituaries for names we knew. Voldemort was winning, and a dark overcast was thrown over my outlook.

Thankfully, after a bout of sickness, he came round not only to his feet, but also to his senses. He broke off his relationship, and those heavy, dark feelings of defeat were gone – he was free; he was mine.

The year came to a close, and Snape did the unthinkable – kill Dumbledore. We were in stunned silence – how could the most powerful wizard of our time go down so easily? Worse was the betrayal of Snape. He was dubious from the beginning, and now we all knew he was on the Dark side. Voldemort's side. We buried Dumbledore properly, a service and all. Never did I feel so insecure and bare at that moment – Dumbledore was security for all of us. Now, we were as naked as were when we were born. Vulnerable, and without protection.

We made our vow, then and there, to help Harry. Dumbledore left him a job to do, to bring down Voldemort. What could we do but bear along with him? We stood by Harry our entire lives, and we could never leave him. Our lives were on the line, but I could never live with myself if Harry died without me there. So we made a vow, then and there, to follow him forever.

And here we are my boy and I. It's the eve of his brother's wedding, and we sit in his room, just me and him, talking over the journey ahead and the pages of life behind. If it wasn't for him, arriving as he did to rescue me from the troll that first year, I may not have been sitting here with him, alive or not. And even if our book of life was to close sooner than we had expected, I can't help but feel unease. What if he never knew of my love? What if either of us died? He would never know, and how would I live with myself? How could I fail to tell him?

I could just tell him now. Just open my mouth, and quietly tell him 'I love you.' The worst he could do is stare at me and not respond, or laugh at me. At least he would know – I would not have failed to tell him. My heart would be there, and at least I would die peacefully…but should I risk humiliation? I can only guess that he loves me. What if he doesn't? That would be even worse – to fail to have him love me.

_Say it, Hermione. If you die tomorrow, he will never know._

_But what if it's a useless attempt anyway? He may not even care – and wouldn't that be a worse failure? To have loved him for so long, to only have him reject you?_

_Say it._

_Don't._

_Say it._

_Don't you dare…_

"Hermione?" he asks, his eyebrows furrowing. "What's the matter? You've been staring at me for the past five minutes."

"I…nothing," I sigh. "Nothing."

"Okay then," and he returns to packing his things. "Do you think I should take a cloak?"

"Sure. Best you should." What an utter failure.

_I love you, Ron Weasley._


End file.
